


What Was Lost, Was Found

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Filavandrel and Jaskier are best buds, Filavandrel is human, Fluff, Geralt is a ghost, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Ghost Sex, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a medium, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Outdoor Sex, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28880772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: Geralt let him lower his hand. He stood up straight and cleared his throat."I'll appreciate it if you don't smack my pretty face with my own hand, then," he declared, chin raised.He pushed his cart forward, soon to be served next.And for five very awkward seconds, he stood under the wide-eyed stares of the customer in front of him and the woman at the till.Jaskier stared back at them with heavy-lidded eyes, chin still raised."I wasn't talking to you." He tilted his head. "I was talking to my ghost boyfriend."________________________Jaskier is a professional medium—an intermediary between the living and the dead. Geralt is a ghost from the thirteenth century who resides in Jaskier's body. Somehow, they make their surreal romance work.(Originally a Twitter fic at@giddytf2. Edited, with extra paragraphs and details, for easier reading here on AO3!)
Relationships: Filavandrel aén Fidhál & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 289





	1. At the Supermarket

**Author's Note:**

> This particular geraskier modern AU exists because of a "ghost/medium AU" prompt I came across on Twitter, which lead to me imagining [a very NSFW story idea](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1351114921782763524) for it. Ironically, I ended up writing a twitfic for what should have been the sequel to that NSFW story idea, which resulted in the first two chapters of this story. The third chapter is the very NSFW story idea, uh, fleshed out.

If someone were to ask Jaskier’s dear old nan what his current occupation was, she would have said, “Why, just the other day, that little terror ran out naked into the front garden and tinkled all over the tulips!”

Granted, she was ninety-five years of age, and her dementia had permanently suspended him in time at the wee age of four in her mind. The flowers he’d actually peed on were his mother’s daffodils, not the tulips. _But_ , if his nan did remember he was an adult man in his late thirties now, she would probably have said, “Oh, does he still talk to himself all the time? The poor boy, I told his mother there was something wrong with him, but she wouldn’t listen. She said he simply had an amazing imagination, and that all the _ghosts_ he chattered with were his imaginary friends!”

It was just as well that his entire family believed that.

His nan certainly did not want to know what his long departed grandad had to say about the dry, tasteless meatloaf she’d baked for him for fifty years of his surly life.

No, it was just as well that his entire family believed he was anything but a professional medium, an intermediary between the living and the dead. Really, how awkward it would be for him to show up to Sunday dinner and say, “Hello, I have a ghost boyfriend who resides in my body and talks to me with the _sexiest_ voice, and his name is Geralt, and when we met, he levitated me and made me come in my pants seven times.”

And because said ghost boyfriend was hungry, and Jaskier needed to stock up on groceries, here they were at the supermarket.

“All right, all right,” Jaskier muttered to himself, pushing his loaded cart with both hands. “Ice cream. Last on the list.”

Even with his denim jacket on, he shivered as he sauntered past rows of freezers. The chill that emanated from them made him all the more aware of Geralt’s reassuring, sun-hot presence in his chest—

In Jaskier's mind, Geralt growled, _What is that?_

Jaskier halted next to the open freezer midway down the long aisle. He glanced down at the numerous stacks of frozen processed food.

"What is what?"

He squinted at a particularly garish box cover featuring a grinning pizza. He squealed in alarm when Geralt moved his right arm and pointed at one of the boxes. Gods, he was never getting used to that.

_That! What is that thing?_

With a huff, Jaskier used his left hand to force down his right arm and make Geralt release it from his invisible grip. He leaned down to squint at the box Geralt had pointed at.

"Oh, they're fajitas," he replied. "You know, grilled meat in tortillas. A taco."

There was a long pause before Geralt growled, _Taco?_

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

"Right. Ghost from the thirteenth century. Silly me."

_I want it._

Jaskier stood upright, his eyes narrowed once more.

"Why?"

_I want it._

Jaskier narrowed his eyes even more, crossing his arms over his chest.

" _Why_ do you want it when we have frozen fried chicken and chips and pizza and paratha?"

_I want it._

"Geralt, manners."

_I want it now._

Jaskier squealed in outrage when his own right hand flew up to smack his cheek.

"Geralt! We discussed this!" He smacked his own right hand with his left, frowning at it. "It's _rude_ to take control of me without my consent!"

Geralt’s demand rumbled like distant thunder: _I want the fajitas._

Jaskier swiveled away from the freezer, his nose turned up. He resumed pushing the cart down the aisle.

_Jaskier._

"No," he retorted.

_Jaskier._

"No! No fajitas for you until you learn some decorum!"

A long minute of silence passed before Geralt spoke again.

_Fajitas, please._

Jaskier continued down the aisle, pointedly ignoring the freezers.

_Fajitas, please, Jaskier._

Jaskier paused next to the ice cream section and picked up a carton of coffee-flavored gelato. He slowly read its list of ingredients, lips jutting out in a moue.

_I'm—sorry._

Against his will, Jaskier's annoyance began to melt away like the ice chips clinging onto the carton. Still, he took his sweet time placing the carton into the cart, pouting on.

_I just—_

Again, Geralt controlled his chilled right hand—to gently caress his cheek.

_Everything is so—new to me. Your world is so abundant._

Jaskier let out a soft sigh. His pout transfigured into a fond smile as his fingers stroked the mound of his cheek.

_You have everything at your fingertips._ A hesitant pause, then Geralt asked, _Why do you not go mad?_

After Geralt released his hand, Jaskier maneuvered the cart to saunter down the aisle to the fajitas.

"I guess we're just used to it," he murmured. "Decades ago, things weren't like this. We had fewer choices. Higher quality for less money. Wages that really did let you live." He halted next to the freezer brimming with tex-mex food again. His lips curled up in a bittersweet smile. "Funny, isn't it, how we have everything at our fingertips—and we can't afford so much of it."

He sensed Geralt contemplating on his words.

_So you need two professions._

Jaskier plucked up the box of fajitas and chucked it into the cart.

"Yes, if I want to keep staying in my current apartment. Being a medium only pays so much. So does being a musician."

_I'm—I was a witcher. It was all I knew. It was what I was trained to be, since I was a boy._

Jaskier memorized that fascinating tidbit, like he did everything else about Geralt. His good friend, Fil, would appreciate it, what with his ongoing, obscure research thesis on thirteenth century hunters or something like that.

"You obviously didn't have supermarkets in your time."

_We hunted game in the woods. Or bought meals with coin in a tavern._

Jaskier pushed the cart down the aisle again, heading for the check-out. He was getting rather famished himself. Fried chicken and chips sounded divine.

"Well, I have to pay for all of these items with money."

He tried not to glance down at the full cart. At how much of his meager money this month was going into the till.

_How many crowns?_

It took Jaskier a moment to understand the question.

"Uhm." He guided the cart into one of many long check-out lines. "How much could a crown buy?"

_Two good arrows for a crown._

Jaskier smiled to himself and shook his head once.

"That, uhm, doesn't really help. I don't know how much good arrows cost these days." He blinked, then murmured, "But—Fil once said, a quid in 1270 was equivalent to about eight hundred today."

If Geralt had decided to manifest himself to Jaskier's sight then, he would see that adorable frown creasing that high forehead. See those lovely amber eyes gleaming.

_Quid?_

Jaskier let out a low huff of laughter.

"Let's just say my wallet will be very light when we get home."

Once more, Geralt controlled his right hand. He was prepared for the caress down his flushed cheek—but not for his own fingertips tracing the plump swells of his lips.

His face heated up. He lowered his crinkled eyes. Whispered, "Geralt."

Geralt gently pressed on his lower lip.

_Pretty voice. Pretty face._

Jaskier's face heated up even more. His lips stretched into an affectionate smile. At this point in their surreal relationship, he recognized a thank you when he heard it from Geralt.

Geralt let him lower his hand. He stood up straight and cleared his throat.

"I'll appreciate it if you don't smack my pretty face with my own hand, then," he declared, chin raised.

He pushed his cart forward, soon to be served next.

And for five very awkward seconds, he stood under the wide-eyed stares of the customer in front of him and the woman at the till.

Jaskier stared back at them with heavy-lidded eyes, chin still raised.

"I wasn't talking to you." He tilted his head. "I was talking to my ghost boyfriend."

He gave them a broad, sunny smile.

The customer and the woman at the till glanced at each other, their eyes still wide. The woman quickly resumed checking out the customer's items, glancing at Jaskier now and then with eyes gone curious. The customer refused to look at him.

"Nutter," the man muttered under his breath.

It didn't bother Jaskier: no medium could survive without facing criticism.

But his ghost boyfriend had a very different opinion about the customer's insult: a big loaf of ham, wrapped in cling film, flew up from the metal counter—and slammed into the shocked man's face.

Jaskier gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth. The woman paused in the act of pressing buttons on the till and blinked at the man.

No one else seemed to notice anything strange, and went on with their own tasks. While the man rubbed at his bruised cheek and forehead, glancing here and there with round eyes, Jaskier and the woman shared a look.

He raised his eyebrows, then waggled them.

Her lips tremored into a smile of amazement.

_Idiot._

Jaskier had to bite his lower lip to not grin upon hearing Geralt's gravelly voice again. He adored it so.

He fought his grin when the shocked customer glanced at him and then took a huge step back from him.

"Oh yes, my ghost boyfriend," he drawled, "is _very_ protective."

He restrained his chuckle until the customer paid and scurried away from him. The dented loaf of ham had been left behind, and he was so tempted to buy it, if only to show it as proof to Fil later.

"So, uh—"

Jaskier paused in setting his items on the counter and glanced at her.

"How—" She bit her lip. Looked at him with hopeful eyes. "How do you get a ghost boyfriend?"

He gave her that sunny smile again, now tinged with genuine warmth. He pulled out his business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"I'm just the man to help you with that, luv."


	2. In the Kitchen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already mentioned this in the tags, but just to be safe--Filavandrel is human in this story, and Jaskier's friend. 🥰

Despite his upper-class upbringing and noble family, Fil was no pompous snob. Fil didn't like being called by his full first name of Filavandrel, although it was associated with his immensely respected great-grandfather who was his namesake and had established the global, multibillion-pound shipping company, Feleaorn.

Fil liked to leave his golden hair long and straggly. Fil met Jaskier when they were both studying at the Academy for different courses—Jaskier in Trouvereship and Poetry under a scholarship, Fil in Natural History—and it was all Jaskier’s fault that Fil had switched from three-piece suits and ties with dress shoes to comfy jumpers and jeans with sneakers. They would lounge about in Fil’s spacious quarters on the vast Academy grounds, Jaskier strumming his guitar and composing songs to distract himself from the prattle of ghosts, Fil burying his face in book after book about people dead for centuries.

Throughout the years of their friendship, Fil enjoyed listening to Jaskier sing. So much that he’d gifted him a priceless vintage lute for his thirtieth birthday: an original though heavily modified instrument from the sixteenth century. Jaskier had unashamedly cried upon unwrapping it from its golden foil in his living room.

Yes, Fil was wealthy beyond imagination, but he was also a good egg, and like Jaskier, had his life-long obsessions with things most people would deem—odd.

"Do you know what a treasure trove this is? This diary of a thirteenth-century princess?!"

They were in Jaskier's kitchen. Fil had brought over a feast of pastas with parmesan tartlets and grilled, stuffed avocados for dinner. Jaskier had no shame in stuffing his ravenous belly with it all, pouncing on the avocados and licking his fingers with relish.

He could feel how much Geralt enjoyed the food.

_I like avocados._

Jaskier had to rein in his chuckle at Geralt's satiated tone: Fil was unaware of the ghost's presence.

"You've said that at least five times," he whispered anyway, eyes crinkled.

_They are very nice._

"They are, aren't they?"

_Want more avocados, Jaskier._

Uh oh, Fil wasn't gazing down at the ancient tome on the table anymore. Fil was squinting at him with sharp eyes.

"Who are you talking to?"

Jaskier took his time chewing and swallowing a mouthful of Alfredo pasta.

"Myself," he replied, licking his lips. "It—you know, helps!"

"With what?"

"With—" Jaskier made circular motions with both hands at his temples. "Harnessing my—my inner swirling energies to—commune with the spirits and all that!"

Fil stared at him, deadpan.

"Gods, you actually say that to your clients, don't you."

"They like that shite!"

Fil made a face at him, grey eyes twinkling.

"It's true!" He grabbed the second last piece of grilled, stuffed avocado. "S'not like I can tell them I just sit around waiting for ghosts to chitchat, and not need some sort of magical power, like—like Gandalf!"

"Gandalf was a wizard."

"Exactly!" Jaskier pointed a forefinger at Fil's face, eyes wide. "He was a wizard! And _I'm_ a ghost whisperer! Very, very different jobs!"

He opened his mouth and lobbed the slice of avocado into it.

 _You don't whisper,_ Geralt said. _You're more like—a ghost yodeller._

"And for that," Jaskier retorted after swallowing, "I'm not buying you any avocados. Ever."

_Jaskier._

"Nope. Never ever."

Fil was squinting at him again. But the gods were merciful, and Fil said nothing, choosing to resume his admiration of the centuries-old tome in front of him.

"Really, Jaskier, this diary is a marvel. It's possibly my most detailed source yet about the hunters I've been researching all these years."

Jaskier gave the blond a fond look, and asked, "Who _are_ these hunters, anyway? What's so special about them?"

Fil perked up like a sprouting flower.

"Oh, they're not just any sort of hunter." Fil's eyes widened with excitement. "They're _witchers!_ "

Jaskier blinked, frozen in the act of forking up more pasta.

"Witchers?"

"Yes! Witchers! And they hunted _monsters_. Isn't that fascinating?"

Geralt was very, very quiet.

Jaskier could sense his gorgeous ghost listening to every word that flowed from Fil's mouth, with a wolf's deadly focus.

"And incredibly, the princess who wrote this diary was a witcher herself!" Fil gestured at the tome with one hand. "Trained since she was a child!"

"Oh?" Jaskier slowly set his fork down on his plate with a less than steady hand. He murmured, "What was her name?"

Fil didn't notice the shift in his demeanor. Fil carefully flipped the book to view its leather-bound cover.

"I hope I translated it correctly, but I believe it was—"

_Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon._

Jaskier heard Geralt's raspy voice far more clearly over Fil's dulcet one.

Geralt had manifested at the square table, sitting perpendicular to them, to Jaskier's left. Geralt wasn't in his armor this time, but in a navy linen shirt, collar unbuttoned. Geralt's large hands were flat on the table top. His long, white hair was loose, and his pulchritudinous face still robbed Jaskier of his breath.

Geralt stared at the ancient tome with wide amber eyes. With a stark emotion that constricted Jaskier's throat and made his eyes sting.

"You said she was—trained to be a witcher?"

Jaskier stared on at Geralt as unrelentingly as the ghost stared on at the precious tome.

"Yes! Indeed she was. Let's see now—" Fil flipped through fragile pages yellowed by age. "Ah, here we are—she mentions her mentor very often."

Fil pointed at two sentences written elegantly in black ink, his fingertip stopping short of touching the paper.

"This is the very first mention of him, and it's _fascinating_ because it simply says—" Fil smiled benevolently. "'Geralt and I found each other. It was destiny.'"

Geralt said nothing. His amber eyes slid shut. If it wasn't for those callused, thick fingers curling in on the table, Jaskier could almost mistake his anguished ghost for a semi-transparent statue suspended in time.

Fil couldn't see or hear him.

No one except Jaskier could.

All it took for Geralt to languish in the shadows—to become nothing but shadow, dead like his distant past—was for Jaskier to turn his back on him.

"Admittedly, the rest of the entries are rather dry. She mostly described the hunts she and other witchers participated in. But!" Fil was flipping through the pages once more, halting on one filled with deliberate marks of ink. "Look at this! Unless someone else had access to this diary—she drew him!"

Fil lifted the tome and turned it to face Jaskier. For once in his mouthy life, he was truly speechless.

Before his very eyes was undeniable evidence of Geralt having lived centuries ago: the drawing on the page might as well have been a mirrored reflection of the gorgeous ghost who sat near him now. In the drawing, Geralt's luxuriant hair was tied in a half-up, half-down style. Geralt was gazing to the side of the artist, at something in the far distance. His expression was tender. Vulnerable. Inestimable in its rarity.

Immortalized in black ink upon a yellowed page—all that was left of the living person he'd once been.

"Handsome fella, wasn't he?"

Jaskier had to swallow hard before replying with a husky voice, "Yes. He is."

At last, he felt Geralt's intense eyes upon his face. He waited until Fil was browsing through the tome yet again to return Geralt's regard.

Geralt was gazing at him with the same tender, vulnerable expression.

Geralt was gazing at him as if they were suspended in the unstoppable passage of time. As if they were forever.

How could he not fall in love with this gorgeous ghost again, this beautiful being who was more alive and real than so many breathing, walking people in this world?

"Shame what happened to him at the end, though."

Fil's casual comment struck Jaskier like a cascade of ice water over his entire body.

He tore his eyes away from Geralt and stared at Fil. He mumbled, "What?"

Fil was squinting at a different page further down the tome, brow creased.

"Mm, yes, it really was a ghastly business."

Jaskier was torn between hurling the tome out of the kitchen and demanding for more details. His mouth decided for him.

"What? What do you mean?"

Fil grimaced at him.

"I know you don't like hearing awful, morbid things like this—"

To his shock, his mouth spoke without his control—for Geralt was speaking through it.

"Tell me," his voice, much lower and raspier than usual, asserted.

Fil stared wide-eyed at him for a good four seconds in dazed silence. Fil opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and frowned.

"Uhm." Fil cleared his throat. "All right. If that's what _you_ want, Jaskier."

Jaskier shut his eyes. He could acutely feel Geralt throughout his body like a warm wave of sunlight, sharing the same space with his soul. They were together. They were one.

And Geralt was scared.

Oh gods, Geralt didn't know how he'd died.

"Yes," Jaskier said with his usual voice. He opened his eyes. "Tell me."

Fil glanced down at the page filled from top to bottom with elegant writing. Round splotches marred some of the words, as if water had dripped onto them from above.

"It seemed—he'd been alone on a hunt. The hunt had actually been successful." Fil cleared his throat again, eyes honed on the text he was translating. "But, he was found in the morning by the very villagers he'd saved. In the woods. He—"

Jaskier fidgeted with his fingers on the table surface.

Geralt was so very quiet. A hot, vibrating entity in the refuge of his chest.

"There's no gracious way to put this." Fil sighed. "Some other monster had—ripped him apart. With claws. Or teeth. I can't translate its name. But it must have been terrifying. This princess and two other witchers hunted it." Fil raised the page to squint at it. "If I'm translating their names right, they were—Eskel and Lambert." He lowered the page flat. "She described them as his closest brothers."

The physical space at the table where Geralt had manifested was empty. Geralt was a warm, full sensation in Jaskier's aching chest.

Jaskier lowered stinging eyes. He blinked hard to clear his blurry vision. Rubbed at his chest over his brown jumper, over the precious ghost—the precious _soul_ that resided there with his.

"She didn't make another entry for months. But when she did—" Fil flipped the page. "She wrote, 'It's dead.'"

"Good," Jaskier rasped, and he couldn't tell if he had said it, or Geralt.

Fil sighed again, but it was with affection. When Jaskier raised his eyes, he saw the same affection in those familiar grey eyes.

"I told you it was ghastly," Fil said. "Want to see something nicer?"

Not waiting for Jaskier's response, Fil shut the old tome and took out a digital tablet from the satchel hanging off the back of his chair. After choosing a photo, he placed the tablet on the table for Jaskier's perusal.

"This is a memorandum currently stored at the Academy."

To Jaskier, it was just a photo of a very old, fraying page with more elegant handwriting in black ink. A red seal at the top of the page stood out like a blossomed rose. Or a pool of blood.

"To be specific, it was a royal memorandum on a successor for Princess Cirilla's personal bodyguard."

Jaskier tilted his head. He pointed at several words written in the margins of the memorandum, in the same style like in the diary.

"What does this say?"

"Ah, that." Fil's face softened. "That was the princess’s response to choosing anyone other than Geralt: 'I am devastated.'"

Jaskier's chest throbbed tenfold. He couldn't tell if it was his own ache or Geralt's. Perhaps it was theirs.

"He was certainly important to her. Even after she became queen, she refused to ever have a personal bodyguard." Fil's lips quirked up. "And she named her son after him."

Jaskier yearned so much for Geralt to speak now. To say something, anything.

But he was intimate with Geralt long enough to know his beloved ghost spoke far better with action than words: he felt Geralt's pride and elation like melting, soothing ripples throughout his body.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, giving Fil a warm smile. “For sharing all that with me.”

Fil’s equally warm gaze seemed to pierce past his face, to peer inside him.

“You’re welcome,” Fil said, and Jaskier wondered whether his friend was saying that to him.

Jaskier was always sorry to see Fil go, even after hours of being in each other's company. Fil was the first to believe in his abilities as a medium. Fil never stopped believing in them.

And of course, he should've known better than to think Fil wouldn't have guessed the truth.

In the doorway of his apartment, after pulling him into a tight hug, Fil said against his ear, "If your _old_ friend feels up to an interview some time, let me know, yeah?"

Jaskier's eyes popped open. They stayed wide, even after Fil stepped back and laughed at his expression.

"Oh, stop that, you. I've _never_ heard your voice go that low in my life!" Fil raised an eyebrow. "But I can believe it if it's _his_ voice." Fil raised his other eyebrow. "Did you know one of the diary entries claimed that he can break giant pumpkins with just his _thighs?_ "

Jaskier was still sputtering as Fil cackled and strutted away to the lift, waving a hand in farewell.

 _He's—not lying,_ Geralt rumbled with that cherished, low voice.

A smile of relief spread across Jaskier's face while he shut and locked the door.

"Really, Geralt. Pumpkins?"

_One time I crushed an assassin's skull between my thighs._

Jaskier staggered to a halt in the living room, making a horrified face.

"Geralt! Ugh!"

_Sorry. I forgot humans these days are—cream puffs._

Jaskier sauntered to the bedroom, ignoring the rather accurate remark.

"Look at you! Learning the local lingo and becoming one of us—"

His left hand whipped up in the nick of time to block his right hand from smacking his cheek.

"Ah hah! You're not getting me, you crotchety ghostie—"

He squealed with indignation when his left hand smacked his face instead. He smacked his left hand with his right hand, and he pointedly ignored the gravelly snicker that echoed in his mind.

"Don't make me remove fajitas from next week's menu!"

_You wouldn't._

Jaskier sauntered into the en suite bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

“I would!"

_Jaskier, no._

"Fajitas, gone! Bye-bye, beef pepperoni pizza!"

_Jaskier, no, please._

Jaskier retorted between rinses of his toothpaste-foaming mouth: "Ooh, so when you get your yummy-yummies, I'm the ghost _yodeller!_ But when you don't, suddenly you're all Mister _Please_ —"

_I like avocados and fajitas and pizza._

"Hmph!" Jaskier made a show of stomping into the bedroom, stripping down to his boxer-briefs. "Of course you do."

Geralt stayed silent until he was curled up in bed under the blankets, snug and warm.

_But I like you most, Jaskier._

Jaskier bit his tremoring lower lip hard. It just wouldn't do to smile now.

"Don't think for a second that'll work on me, you rapscallion!"

Oh, Geralt was manifesting into sight on the bed, lying on his side, facing him. The lower half of Geralt's muscular, splendid body faded into the blankets. Geralt wasn't wearing any clothes this time. Gods, it truly was unfair that he couldn't touch his gorgeous witcher, that his hands passed through the ghost as if he wasn't there.

 _Jaskier,_ Geralt murmured, full lips moving in time with the gravelly, sensual voice in his mind.

Jaskier attempted to caress Geralt's face anyway. He hid his disappointment at only feeling a tingling heat, and smiled tenderly.

"Are you all right, though?"

Geralt gazed unblinking at him in the easy wake of his whisper in the semi-darkness.

_I fell asleep. And I never woke up._

Jaskier drew in a breath that trembled at its end. He laid his hand over Geralt's on the bed in the narrow area between them, and their hands occupied the same warm space.

"I'm glad you didn't feel any pain," he whispered.

Geralt blinked slow like a drowsy owl.

_I never knew what had happened to me. Until tonight._

Jaskier ached to hold Geralt's hand. To feel its calluses, its ridges, its strength.

"S'was nice to find out how Princess Cirilla fared, too, wasn't it?"

Geralt's handsome features softened with palpable love. It was an exquisite vision to behold.

_She was my Child Surprise._

Jaskier didn't ask for more details on that, not tonight. They had time for that in future nights, when Geralt wasn't so raw, when the enormity of his brutal death centuries ago didn't hover so near.

Jaskier's eyes crinkled.

"What's it feel like knowing you were a grandfather?"

Geralt's lovely amber eyes also crinkled.

_Nice._

Jaskier raised both eyebrows, curbing a smile of amusement.

"Nice? Just—nice? My goodness, Geralt. What could possibly top finding out you were the beloved father figure of an awesome queen and the chosen namesake of her son?"

Geralt was gazing at him again with that tender, vulnerable expression. One so rare only a princess had earned the privilege to behold it so very long ago, in a time when terrifying monsters roamed the world and heroes went by a different name.

 _I found you,_ Geralt murmured.

Oh, there Jaskier's heart went, rocketing up into his pinhole-sized throat, up into his stinging eyes and brimming there.

He had no idea who he would summon that fateful day in the woods miles and miles from here. No idea how he would be forever changed with a mere invitation.

_Hello, maybe I'm not who you're looking for—but I'll be your very best friend in the whole wide world, if that's what you need._

And for the very first time, he'd heard Geralt's gravelly, sensual voice speak, in his ear, in his mind.

_I need someone._

_And for someone to need me._

Months later, here and now in his cozy bedroom, gazing into those heavy-lidded amber eyes he would never see on anyone else, Jaskier knew with every cell in his body the simple truth of the words he would utter.

"We found each other."

It was a truth that could survive the ages. A truth that could be immortalized in black ink on thin paper, in an enduring soul that was stronger than death and time combined.

_It was destiny._

And Geralt's rasped words were a simple truth that etched themselves upon Jaskier's eternal soul too.


	3. In the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written as a twitfic at @giddytf2 [here!](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1359413533369274373) I've edited it with additional sentences, changed words here and there, etc so the AO3 version below is the final version. It's also the chapter that definitely ups the rating from T to Explicit, and tells about how medium!Jaskier and ghost!Geralt met. 😈
> 
>   
>    
> 

Jaskier was not the sort to go gallivanting in the woods, as much as he adored the idea of wearing a flower crown and a fluffy dress while doing so. Today, with the early morning sun smiling down upon him between leaf-laden branches, he'd opted for more convenient, simple attire.

He adjusted the frilly sleeves of his white, low-cut shirt. Brushed his hands down the dark red velvet of his jacket that puffed at the shoulders. Tugged at black, skin-tight trousers near his right buttock, then wiggled his hips once.

Gods, he should have brought a mirror out. What if his black eyeliner was smeared? Or he hadn't applied enough mascara? Or his eyeshadow was too light?

Would the ghost he was about to lure even _like_ a man in makeup?

"Come on, Jask," he muttered, giving himself a full-body shake. "You've done this countless times."

Technically that wasn't quite true. Yes, he'd regularly communicated with ghosts since he was a child, although he hadn't realized his numerous friends were very much dead until his nan caught him serving play-tea to a grumpy, jowly man called Mr. Churchill only he could see. Yes, he preferred to wear makeup and dress nicely during an attempt to commune with ghosts, because he liked feeling pretty and his lips looked good with lipstick. And yes, Mr. Churchill had disliked the play-tea and solemnly declared that Lapsang Souchong was his favorite tea.

But no, this was the first time he would lure a ghost that Valdo Marx—that annoying, copycat _pillock_ without an iota of originality—had challenged him to catch. A ghost so elusive, so _menacing_ that it'd sent other mediums running and screaming out of the woods in terror.

For all he knew, the ghost could have been a murderer. A vicious serial killer in life with innumerable deaths on their resume, capable of a hundred ways of slaying man and beast alike. He could be strolling straight to an agonizing demise here, with no one around to help him.

One of those mediums who'd fled these very woods months ago had sworn that she'd seen the ghost wielding _swords_.

Jaskier had no interest whatsoever in learning how it felt to be chopped up by ghost swords.

But—what if the ghost was being so aggressive because it was _scared?_

What if the other mediums were wrong about the ghost being a danger? What if they'd failed to connect to the ghost because they'd already assumed the worst, instead of giving it a chance to be seen, to be _known?_

He had to reach out.

He had to at least try.

He had to know.

He shut his eyes and tilted his head back. He basked for a minute under the warm sunshine, under the cool breeze that caressed his smooth cheek. Drew in a long breath that stayed steady.

Steady now. Steady on.

Whatever was going to happen to him, good or bad, was destined.

Desiccated leaves crunched beneath the soles of his leather boots. The cool breeze trailed after him. The grass wept dew, and a lark sang a melodious lament in honor of its fleeting sorrow. He whistled in accompaniment with the tiny singer, his eyes crinkled, steps slow.

It was difficult to imagine this lush place of peace as a place of fear, of violence. His online research had yielded next to nothing about the history of this forest, other than the fact it'd been here undisturbed for many centuries, now protected land for conservation purposes. But a lifetime of interactions with ghosts had taught him this much: appearances were always deceiving. Peel back the grass, slice the soil, and one would see its undulating stratas that revealed its antiquity, its secrets. Its subterranean graveyard of monsters once unknown.

Ghosts were everywhere. They had their histories, their secrets, their own monsters.

He had his own, too.

He knew he'd arrived at the right location when he caught sight of the crude carving Valdo had made on an oak tree to mark the ghost's most frequent place of manifestation. He wrinkled his nose at it. Ugh, the berk couldn't even do a decent job of carving the outline of a wolf's head.

"Who are you?" Jaskier whispered, staring at the carving. "You with two swords, white hair, and a wolf's head on a medallion. Who _are_ you?"

The wolf said nothing. Neither did the tree, or the forest, or its inhabitants. The lark wasn't singing anymore. The breeze felt colder against his cheek.

He turned around and surveyed his surroundings: just nine feet away from the tree was a natural formation of rock that resembled a rising sea wave. He sauntered to it, then pressed a hand flat on its coarse, moss-coated surface. If he'd been a lone traveler who had to rest out here in the woods, he would have picked this spot. Would have lit a campfire to keep animals away. Slept with this rock wall behind him for defense.

Someone who wielded two swords would certainly have done that.

"Who are you?"

He received no reply. Undeterred, he lightly dragged his hand across the rock. Frowned at the long, parallel grooves that marred its surface at random areas. If he didn't know better, they looked like—

Something fire-hot and _tangible_ brushed past his upper back.

With a gasp, he swiveled around, his arms low at his sides, his shoulders a tense range of bunched muscles. The wall of rock stood sentinel behind him. In its shadow, he breathed steady. His heartbeat quickened.

All he saw was the still forest, and fractured beams of sunlight, and grass that no longer wept.

He wasn't alone.

He could sense the ghost's powerful presence nearby.

He sucked in a deep breath that didn't tremble. He let it out slowly.

"My name is Jaskier. I mean you no harm."

He received no response. He wasn't surprised: more often than not, ghosts required persuasion to expose themselves, much less to speak with the living. After the other mediums' blunders, he had his work cut out for him.

Hopefully it wouldn't involve ghost swords and him chopped.

He took measured steps out of the shadow of the rock wall. On a fresh, wide patch of grass, under sunshine gone golden, he knelt then sat on his heels, his hands relaxed on his thighs. It was the most innocuous pose he could think of, short of prostrating himself on the ground.

He still couldn't see the ghost, but he could sense it was circling him. Eyeing him like a wary wolf scrutinizing a creature that was mysterious to it. Was he mere prey to it? Or was he something more?

He cleared his throat.

"Hello," he said, letting a benevolent smile bloom.

He resisted the temptation to turn his head in the ghost's direction, to reveal his ability to track it.

"Maybe I'm not who you're looking for—" His smile bloomed even more with genuine warmth. "But I'll be your very best friend in the whole wide world, if that's what you need."

He meant every word. Kindness had a far more positive effect in successfully forging a connection to a ghost than brute force—something Valdo could never learn.

A ghost was, after all, the non-corporeal incarnation of a person.

Jaskier had yet to encounter one that spurned it.

Silent, taut minutes ticked by. He could sense the ghost circling closer and closer around him, like a searing desert wind. Like a long, bushy tail, brushing his upper back with ephemeral caresses. His rigid shoulders. His sensitive nape above the collars of his jacket and shirt.

He couldn't suppress the shiver of wonderment, of _excitement_ that shook him from shoulders to hips. The ghost's presence was so tangible at this point that he could _feel_ its form, its silhouette looming behind him.

It was—a man. A man larger than he was. Stronger. Deadlier.

His hands clenched into fists on his thighs at the fire-hot caress along the rim of his left ear. It almost felt like—firm, full lips pressing on his flushed skin. He swallowed hard. Sat as motionless as he could, and tried not to whimper when the ghost finally spoke to him.

_I need someone._

His eyes widened at the low, gravelly voice that resounded in his ear, his mind. He'd never heard a ghost speak so clearly to him before.

He'd never, ever heard a ghost speak with such a _sexy_ voice before.

The fire-hot sensation on his ear intensified. His eyelids fluttered, but his eyes popped open again when the ghost spoke once more.

_And for someone to need me._

Jaskier tried to part his dry lips. To say something, to grab hold of this incredible, tenuous connection and not let go. But the ghost glided in front of him. The ghost manifested in front of him for the first time—and robbed him of his precious breath and his multitude of words.

First he saw long, white hair, tied in a half-up half- down style. Then he saw large amber eyes beneath grey, thick eyebrows, staring unblinking back at him. A distinguished nose with a cleft at its tip. Firm, full lips that looked as lovely as they'd felt upon his skin. A bold chin with an even more pronounced cleft in it.

Combined as a whole, those features presented to Jaskier the most ravishing face he'd ever laid his eyes on.

"Look at you," he breathed with awe, his lips quivering into a blissful smile. "You're gorgeous."

The ghost blinked hard, as if it— _he_ hadn't expected such a compliment. The ghost reared back—and Jaskier was robbed of his breath again while his wide eyes skimmed downwards. The ghost wore only a pair of black, high-waist trousers with a long row of buttons. It left none of the ghost's bulky, muscular torso to Jaskier's imagination, but he had no complaints about that.

 _Gods_ , of course such a handsome face was matched with an equally amazing body.

The scars strewn all over it did nothing to diminish its perfection in Jaskier's sight. He wanted to press his hands on that hairy, solid chest, to nuzzle and kiss it. He wanted to run his hands along those broad shoulders, down those brawny arms, to grip those large hands. He wanted to wrap his fingers around that trim waist. To strip away those trousers. To mold their bodies together from head to toes, to be so close that they became one entity.

But he couldn't.

At least, not in the way that living people—trapped in bodies of flesh and bone—could.

The ghost was staring at his face again, nearer now, reducing the heated space between them to inches. Those alluring amber eyes darted from feature to feature, as if memorizing them. As if their possessor deemed _him_ gorgeous.

"My name's Jaskier," he rasped. "What's yours?"

The ghost stared at him for several more seconds. Then those full lips parted and moved, and in his mind, he heard that low, gravelly voice speak softly.

_I am—Geralt of Rivia._

A pleased smile spread across Jaskier's face like a ripple across a lake.

"Geralt," he murmured.

The ghost reared back a second time, but it wasn't from shock. It was from—amazement. From joy that showed in amber eyes glistening and a bobbing throat.

When Jaskier realized why, his own throat bobbed with emotion.

How long had it been since the ghost heard his name uttered? How long had it been since the ghost—since _Geralt_ spoke to anyone? Or received kindness from anyone? Or _touched_ anyone?

Jaskier stayed silent and still as Geralt raised one of those large hands towards his chest. He could partially see through Geralt at the forest beyond. He stared at a fallen branch on the grass. He stared at it—but all his other senses were acutely aware of Geralt's approaching touch. Would he feel it as a warm tingle, like he did when other ghosts had touched him? Would it feel cooler? Hotter?

Would it burn him?

Brand him?

His hands clenched tighter. His fingernails dug into his palms. His breath stuttered as Geralt's hand hovered over his chest above his shirt's low collar.

"Go on," he rasped. He raised his eyes and gazed into Geralt's wide ones. "It's all right. Go on. You won't hurt me."

Such naked desperation was etched upon the ghost's face. Such _hope_.

Just how long had Geralt been trapped in this forest, alone and forgotten?

Jaskier gave him another benign smile, kohl-lined eyes crinkling.

Geralt said nothing.

Geralt pressed that large hand on his chest.

It went through his flushed skin, his warm flesh. It slid deep into his core—and no, it didn't burn him, or brand him.

It annihilated him with an electrifying explosion of heartache and longing and lust.

His eyes went round and stark. His mouth fell open in a soundless gasp. His pierced body shuddered with the sudden, overwhelming _pleasure_ , and he sat helpless under Geralt's intense, stunned stare, trying to process what was happening to him: no other ghost had ever affected him this way. No other ghost had ever reached into him and _found_ him.

Still wide-eyed, gasping, he dipped his head to gaze down at his chest. Geralt's whole hand was inside him. It looked as if it should hurt, but all he felt was the immense pleasure, and all he knew was that he wanted Geralt to feel it too.

He raised a trembling hand to his chest. When his hand passed through Geralt's forearm, it was as if it'd glided through a sunbeam. A moan trickled from his quivering lips when Geralt slowly withdrew his hand. That felt good too, so—

His hand met Geralt's in the energized air between them, slipping into the same space.

And just like that, he was no longer in control of his own hand.

His eyes widened in unison with Geralt's. They gaped down at his hand while Geralt curled and uncurled its long, slender fingers. Rotated it from side to side on its fragile wrist.

 _I can—feel it,_ Geralt rasped.

Without warning, Geralt pressed Jaskier's hand to his heaving chest. Dragged it up over the dark, fine hair that carpeted it. Up, up to his neck.

"Geralt," he gasped.

It was surreal to feel his own hand wrapping around his neck on someone else's volition.

It was—exhilarating.

It quickened his heartbeat and his breaths. It surged his hot blood straight to his cock, fully hardening it within its cloth confines.

Geralt tightened Jaskier's hand.

But he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid at all, not when Geralt stared at him with such wide, _humbled_ eyes.

 _I can feel—your heart beating._ Geralt's lips were quivering too. _I can_ feel _you._

Jaskier raised his other hand to grasp his own wrist. He gave Geralt a tremulous smile when Geralt jolted at the contact, a smile that strengthened as both of them realized the magnitude of Geralt’s reaction.

"Go on," Jaskier whispered, stroking his wrist with a thumb. "Take me. All of me."

Geralt stared at him with disbelief—but with so much more of that hope. So much more _yearning_.

"Geralt." Jaskier tightened his trembling hand around his wrist. "Take me, all of me. _Use me_."

Geralt lowered those exquisite amber eyes to stare at his hand still wrapped around his neck. He felt his own thumb stroke his thundering pulse, once, twice.

He sucked in sweltering air through a pinhole-sized throat.

His toes curled in his boots.

His entire body tremored.

If the pleasure of Geralt's hand inside his chest had been immense, the pleasure of Geralt's entire being entering him, _possessing_ him devastated him into a mindless, writhing wreck. He was flung onto his arched back on the grass. A resonant moan tore from his open mouth. He clawed and kicked at the ground, and moaned and moaned, but he couldn't deny the tremendous waves of heat, of utter _pleasure_ that rolled through him over and over. Geralt was a transcendental force conquering him down to his cells. Flooding all the empty spaces in him.

Flooding him with heat, with light—with celestial fire, with the soul of a star.

Remaking him into something new, something beautiful and eternal and never alone again.

"Geralt," he moaned, his eyelids fluttering, his neck bared for a caress, a kiss. "Please, I can't—need—"

His abrupt orgasm struck him like a hundred-foot-tall wave that erupted from within his clenched lower belly. His back arched completely off the ground. His mouth gaped in a soundless, ecstatic scream. His vision turned blinding white, and oh gods, oh, he'd never come this hard. He was dead— _oh_ , he had to be dead and in heaven, for him to feel so fucking good. So fucking good and full and _cherished_.

"Geralt," he breathed an eon later, peeling his eyes open.

He was sprawled on the grass. His chest heaved for air. He whimpered.

Oh, he was still hard.

He was still hard as ever in his come-drenched pants.

_More._

If Jaskier wasn't as addled with lingering bliss as he was, he would have startled at the vehemence, the _hunger_ in Geralt's rumbling voice in his mind.

_More, Jaskier._

He squirmed on the ground. Whimpered again.

"Yes," he whispered, staring sightlessly up at the pellucid sky, his lips curled in an euphoric smile. "Anything you want, my gorgeous ghost."

He let out a huff of happy laughter as Geralt took control of his sated body again. Oh, he could get used to being spoilt like this.

He couldn't bring himself to be upset about Geralt ripping open his shirt to expose his hirsute chest and belly. It was surreal, so surreal to feel his own hands fondling his body and yet not know how the next touch would affect him or where it would land.

Geralt was relentless.

Geralt ran his fingers through his chest hair repeatedly. Pinched his already perked nipples until he moaned and threshed on the ground. Stroked the flat softness of his belly, and traced the fitted waistband of his trousers.

Popped its round button open.

Yanked its zip down by pulling apart the opening join.

And Jaskier had to chuckle at Geralt's grunt of surprise upon encountering his red boxer-briefs with white piping.

_Hmmn?_

"What," he murmured, smiling, "haven't you seen boxer-briefs before?"

_Boxer-briefs?_

Geralt touched the smooth cotton. Fingered the trousers' open zip. What he said next made Jaskier blink up at the sky in shock.

_It isn't 1275 anymore, is it?_

Jaskier opened his mouth, but was at a momentary loss for words. If he'd heard that right, Geralt was a ghost from—the thirteenth century. Geralt was a ghost over _seven hundred years old_.

Jaskier had to clear his throat before replying with a somewhat steady voice, “No. No, it isn’t.”

_But you dress like a bard._

Geralt was caressing his bared torso again. Touching his velvet jacket's puffed shoulders. His shirt's frilly sleeves.

"Well, uhm, I _am_ a bard.” He made a face. “Although we don’t really use that word nowadays to describe a musician. But that's not all I am."

_Hmmn._

Geralt was skimming his hands down to his throbbing groin again. Slipping them under the boxer-briefs' elastic waistband.

 _No,_ Geralt murmured. _That's not all you are._

Hours from now, Geralt would be the speechless one while Jaskier explained the present world to him. But right now, in this intimate moment under the bright morning sun, Jaskier was rendered wordless again when Geralt wrapped both hands around his cock. Longing and lust rocketed up inside him once more at the mere touch, making him leak anew.

Whose longing and lust was it?

Was it his, or Geralt's?

The thought flitted from his mind like blown smoke as Geralt began to stroke his cock with assured movements, from hilt to tip. Oh, _oh fuck_ , it was so _surreal_ to be wanking himself off and yet not because a _thirteenth-century ghost was doing it for him._ A thirteenth-century ghost who knew exactly what he was doing.

Jaskier threw his head back on the grass. Rocked his hips in an elegant dance with his hands' unwavering rhythm. Moaned loud as intense pleasure burgeoned and rolled through him again.

_Pretty face. Pretty voice._

Geralt's gravelly, sexy voice, praising him so, hurtled Jaskier right to the edge. He gasped for air. Reveled in the slick slide and billowing heat. In letting go of all control.

_Pretty body. Pretty cock._

"Geralt," he rasped, blinking tears away.

_Pretty—all of you. For me._

His second orgasm was no less astounding than the first. He stiffened in a graceful arch, then spurted all over his hands in his boxer-briefs, letting out a shattered moan. It was spectacular: at his age, it was rare these days for him to be able to come twice so soon, so hard.

It was all the more rarer for him to stay hard after two orgasms in a row.

In fact, before today, he'd never experienced this. Not even during his wild teenage years.

What was happening to him? Which god did he have to thank for this miracle? For bringing him and Geralt together?

"W-what—how—"

Whatever else he was about to blurt out choked into a groan. A high-pitched groan growing louder and louder with each fresh wave of pleasure engulfing him. Oh gods, ooh fuck, what was going on—wait, was he really _dying_ —

 _Again,_ Geralt growled in his overloaded mind.

"Geralt, what—"

His third orgasm quaked through him, robbing him of all logical thought, reducing him to a convulsing mass of carnal sensations. A harsh cry burst from his mouth. His cock jerked in his hands but didn't spurt.

 _Again,_ Geralt snarled, voice shaking as much as his hands.

Jaskier could scarcely breathe through his fourth orgasm, smothered in the surfeit of pleasure. He might have possibly wailed like a drunk banshee through the fifth one. Might have cried through the sixth one, whimpering Geralt's name like a mantra.

By the seventh one, he was done.

He must have blacked out for a while. When he regained consciousness, eyes fluttering open, he was lying flat on his back on the grass, his left arm straight at his side. His right arm was folded, his hand resting palm down over his heart.

It was calm. It wasn't hammering anymore.

Geralt had manifested again, looming over him, staring down at him with worried eyes and a creased brow. That lovely, white hair was loose, cascading like a curtain of sunshine onto his cheek.

Geralt still had control of his right hand.

Geralt was feeling his heart beating.

Jaskier drew in a breath that quivered at the end. He drew in another, shorter one, then said, "I'm all right."

His voice was as wrecked as his limp, gratified body was.

"I'm all right, sweetheart." An exultant grin spread across his face. "I have never been more all right."

Geralt's frown waned into a breathtaking, tender expression. Jaskier gazed up at the extraordinary ghost, his grin easing into a fond smile.

Geralt truly was gorgeous. So gorgeous, luscious, and unexpected.

A surprise gift from the gods. A wish he hadn't known could come true.

He lifted his left arm. Ignored its slight trembling and rested his left hand on his right hand.

Geralt's amber eyes crinkled at the gentle contact.

"Look, why don't you leave with me?" Jaskier rasped. "That is, if you'll give me a chance to prove myself a worthy companion."

_Hmmn._

Geralt's tender expression remained.

"We could—we'll go back to my apartment first, and then—" Jaskier bit his lip. "We could head to the coast. Get away for a while." He smiled softly. "It'd be nice to look at the sea instead of the forest for a change, wouldn't it?"

It took seconds that felt as long as centuries for his offer to sink in for Geralt. He could see the understanding unfold across those handsome features. See those amber eyes widen, those full lips part in astonishment.

He swallowed past a lump in his throat.

"I need someone, and for someone to need me, too."

Geralt's expression settled into an even more tender one. The sight of it made the lump in Jaskier's throat grow. No, Geralt hadn't said those words earlier as a demand: they'd been a plea from another lonely soul to be seen, to be known. To be loved.

He gave Geralt another adoring smile.

"Life is short," he declared, and his hoarse voice didn't diminish that simple truth, nor the next one. “We should do what pleases us, while we still can."

He gave his right hand—Geralt's hand—a squeeze.

"Leave with me, Geralt," he pleaded. "Live, with me."

A lark was singing once more. Jaskier wasn't sure if it was the same bird he'd whistled with, or if it was another. It was warbling with all its frail yet stupendous heart. It was alive. It hoped.

Geralt returned his warm stare.

Geralt caressed his bare chest that rose and fell with long, steady breaths.

 _I don't remember what the sea looked like._ Geralt's lips quirked up. _But, I think it might have been blue. Like your eyes._

Jaskier's lips also quirked up. He wasn't sure if the sun-hot presence in his chest was Geralt making himself at home, or if it was pure happiness.

Perhaps it was both.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to go to the coast to be certain. Won't we?"

And their smiles grew, and the lark warbled on, and Jaskier's toes wriggled with glee in his boots at the opportunity to take Valdo Marx down a peg or twenty once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two ideas for the next chapter in this AU, but as of posting this, I'm not sure which one to work on first:
> 
> \- Set immediately after the above chapter, Jaskier--with Geralt safely ensconced in him--walks back to his car and drives back to the city. Jaskier has to explain the modern world to the stunned 13th-century ghost, and also figure out their life together as ghost/human lovers.
> 
> \- Set after chapter 2, Jaskier has to attend Sunday dinner at his mother's behest. Jaskier hates these dinners--and apparently so does Geralt, who freaks out and takes control of Jaskier's body and then freaks everyone else out by jumping on the dinner table to devour everything. Jaskier's mum punishes him by making him spend the whole day with his demented, old nan--who can see Geralt.


End file.
